Shock
by seatbeltdrivein
Summary: RoyEd, future fic. "The doctors all have theories," Roy explained. "But no one has any concrete answers. One of them even suggested it was all a matter of his mind catching up to the rest of the world."


_Thanks to a-big-apple for all the help on this. ^^ It's… a bit different, I guess you could say. Same old, same old – AU where Al has his body and Ed still has his automail._

**EDIT 04 MAY 2011 - This is *not* a complete story. Technically speaking, it's a completed section from a universe I'm working on, but there is, actually, more to come. I was going to post the 'sequel' as a seperate story, but instead, when it's posted, it'll be added as another chapter here.**_  
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Ed couldn't see a damn thing in the dark. He curled his knees up under the sheets and strained his ears for any sign of Roy in the house, but he was alone. If he could only see the clock, see the time, look out the window, he'd know for how long, and how long was what was really the issue, because spending too much time in the dark was bad, was the same as going back in time and climbing into all those tight, little places the light of day illuminated and made harmless.

Roll over, sit up, stare blindly at the wall and wonder at the distance. Somewhere, a clock chimed, down the stairs? Ed couldn't even tell.

If he moved a little more, if he sat up straight, his automail could rest on his stomach and he could think on that for an hour or a minute or a day, until the moment the door downstairs creaked open and carried Roy and the sun's light inside.

The curtains weren't supposed to be closed. Ed couldn't remember how they closed, only knew that they _were_and shouldn't be—

At the bottom of the stairs, the well-worn creak of the front door, and Ed thanked whatever higher power took the time to listen to him whine that they'd never oiled it.

He could hear Roy downstairs, could see the familiar path in his mind: kitchen, jacket over the chair, back to the door, turn the lock, shoes at the bottom of the stairs, socked feet up the stairs and into the bedroom and then Roy was standing next to the bed and Ed could feel him in the room, but he needed to speak, _say something, say anything._

"How are you feeling today?"

And he couldn't answer, of course, but Ed lifted a hand anyway and reached blindly toward the source of Roy's voice, felt his flesh hand connect with something solid, something warm, and then Roy's fingers were laced in his and he wasn't so cold anymore, didn't feel so dim.

Ed's mind pieced itself together and bound its well-being to Roy's hands and the sound of his voice and his breath on Ed's cheek.

"Has anything changed?"

Ed, at least, could shake his head. Roy's hands were in his hair, and he tilted his neck to the side, wanted to purr at the feel, at having something on him that felt so good.

"I've asked Al to come." Roy's face pressed into his hair. Ed could feel the words reverberate against his head, felt the warmth of his breath. "He'll be here tomorrow. Is that all right?"

Ed nodded again. It was Al. Al was always all right, was his perfect little brother, and he'd do it all over again so long as it meant Al wasn't where he was.

"He feels awful, you know?" Roy continued softly. "He thinks it's all his fault. I wish you were here, all here. I wish you could speak to him," and Ed was shaking his head violently, the words he couldn't express whirring inside his skull at top speed.

He could _never_, would never blame Al for anything. Ed could damn well make his own decisions, and _this_was a decision he would never regret.

Roy, at least, got that. "I know," he was saying. "I just wish Al knew it, too."

He would. Ed would make sure Al knew if he had to beat the truth between his brother's eyes, because the life that Al deserved had no room for senseless guilt.

A glass tipped to his lips and Ed drank it down, feeling a pleasant haze overtake him.

"Rest," Roy said, and Ed did.

* * *

"Have they figured it out yet?" Al's bags were still sitting next to the door, as though he wanted to make certain he could take off as quickly as possible. Roy handed him a mug topped to the brim with coffee (black, two sugars).

"Most doctors aren't well-equipped to handle alchemical accidents of this severity." Roy took his seat and ignored the empty chair between them. "The specialists that came by seem to think he's not even really in the present."

"How so?" Al looked so depressed. He was better at hiding it than his brother, at least, didn't let every fleeting emotion spring up in his eyes and on his face and in the way he held himself. Al was so much more private when it came to emotions. All those years of having nothing but, Roy imagined, must have led him to covet the only thing he considered his own. But the despair was clear on Al's face, and that alone was a marker of just how guilty he felt.

"It's in the way he responds. One of them mentioned that he seemed to be," Roy searched for the right words, "somewhere else. In the past, maybe."

"That's not really good."

"No," Roy agreed, "it's really not." He could hardly look at Al when he added, "I should never have assigned you two that mission."

Al let out a surprised shock of laughter. "Don't be ridiculous. Like you knew Zheng was this dangerous? You had the man's name written on a corner of paper as a minor nuisance."

"I did," Roy agreed, "but I was obviously wrong."

* * *

Ed really, really wanted someone to open the curtains. He couldn't hear Roy. He couldn't see Roy. All he had was the fading warmth on the other side of the bed and the slight dampness on his forehead, the parting gift of a rushed morning.

He couldn't see Roy's face to return it, and Ed was sure he must have sat with his arm outstretched, frustrated, for ten minutes before he'd realized he was alone.

If he reached out, his hand would hit the edge of the bed, and Ed knew the floor was beyond it, but part of him rebelled at the thought of just—climbing down, of letting his feet hit the ground so he could find his way out of this hell, the dark, alone.

He really, really, _really_wanted someone to open the curtains, and Ed had the passing thought that if he waited long enough, his mother would be by to open them to air the room, but then there was something wrong with that. What, though, which part?

Ed sat in the middle of the big bed, wondering when he'd gotten so small.

* * *

"But there's no idea?" Al redirected, the combined weight of their guilt too oppressive. "No one knows how long it might last?"

"The doctors all have theories," Roy explained. "But no one has any concrete answers. One of them even suggested it was all a matter of his mind catching up to the rest of the world."

"Catching up? Catching up _how_?"

"I have no idea," Roy said, spoke directly into the rim of his mug because having something to focus on made it all easier. "If he could just—speak, if he could speak, then they'd know better how to deal with this, but he's just," Roy waved a hand, a vague, frustrated motion, "and no one knows _what_the hell he's thinking."

Al's eyes were on the doorway from the kitchen, the stairs that lay beyond it, and he was chewing his lip, his cheek flexing with the grinding motion of his teeth. "Should I speak to him?" he asked. "Maybe I could, but I don't have any idea what to say."

"I think knowing you're there will be enough, Alphonse," Roy suggested. "Go ahead. I'll follow you up in a few minutes."

And it was just as well that Al left because the moment Roy heard his feet pounding up the steps, hit the creak in the sixth one and carry on, the phone rang, a shrill, commanding noise that Roy had come to hate over the years.

"Mustang."

"_Chief_," Havoc greeted. "_We have a problem._"

"What kind of problem?" Roy heard a thump from the top of the stairs, and his eyes drifted upward of their own accord.

"_He's escaped_," and Roy's heart just—stopped. He'd never thought of words being enough to kill a person before, but oh, god, they really could. He'd only need to hear that one more time and the fear might kill him where he stood.

"Escaped," Roy echoed. "Sightings?"

"_Nothing_." Roy could hear the frustration in Havoc's voice. "_Hawkeye and Fuery are on surveillance, and Breda's organizing a guard for the boss, but I don't know what we can really do. He's just—one second, he was sitting in the chair, and the next he was gone, chief. I've never seen anything like it._"

"I'd like you to contact the Xingian embassy. They need to be made aware of what they've caused."

"_You can't blame a whole country for one rogue alchemist, chief_."

"No," Roy agreed, "but I can force them to take steps in securing their alchemist. When Zheng was listed as a wanted man in Amestris, they should have stepped in. I'm taking that option out of their hands. They _will_ step in, Lieutenant." The phone groaned under Roy's grip. "I want him found, Lieutenant, and I want him out of the country—or dead. I don't care, but I want him _gone_."

There was a pause in which Roy could hear nothing but Havoc's breathing, frantic, into the receiver. "_Sir, I think you should come in._"

Roy's mind rebelled at the idea of leaving Ed when that man was out and running around Central like it was his own personal amusement park. "Edward," he began, but then another thump sounded up the stairs and Roy realized with sudden clarity that the only person in the world he would trust Ed with was in his house, in his and Ed's room.

If Al was there, Roy wouldn't need to worry. If Al was there, Roy could hunt that bastard down on his own.

"I'm on way."

* * *

_Al, Al, Al! _Ed's mind was a jumble, and he couldn't focus on one thought, just had a million of them running through his mind all at once, because his brother was there, face buried in Ed's shoulder and shaking, but he was _there_!

"I'm sorry," Al had said when he'd walked in the room. Ed was confused at first, because it wasn't Roy's voice or their mother's voice, and he'd been certain Al's voice wasn't so deep, but then he'd remembered his mother was dead and he was a little too old to be thinking of her anyway.

_Al_!

_Please don't be sorry_, Ed would have said if he could. _I could never blame you. _He would've said that, too, all of that and more because Al was Al. Nothing else mattered.

"Al?" Roy's voice from outside the room. Ed reached out when Al stood up and left, wanting them both there, _Roy, where'd you go? _but they were both gone, only the faint murmuring in the hall a sign that Ed wasn't completely alone.

He wanted to hear what they were saying. It sounded like it was important, and Ed had a feeling that he should know, too, but he couldn't really remember why.

It was so _frustrating_!

But then the mattress dipped down and Roy was there, lips to Ed's cheek and speaking in that low, comforting voice, "I'm going out." Ed grabbed his arm and squeezed. Roy let him. "I'll be back soon," he promised, and Ed let go, because he couldn't think of a reason to hold on. Roy promised—Roy would come back.

Only, then he was thinking about his mother again, and why was he doing that?

"I shouldn't be too long," Roy was saying, but the words weren't for Ed.

"Don't do anything stupid," his brother responded in that deeper man's voice that Ed wasn't quite sure Al should have.

"You know me."

"Yes, I do," Al said. "And that's kind of the problem. You and brother always go too far."

Roy laughed, but it wasn't a nice sound. Ed reached out and received a hand for his troubles, Roy's long fingers lacing in his own and squeezing before releasing him, the sound of feet down the hall the last he could hear before Roy was gone.

Why was that wrong? His heart was squeezing and there was something in those words, the last thing he'd said, but Ed couldn't think, couldn't do _anything._

Al sat down on the bed again and let Ed crawl over to him and rest his head on his shoulder, thankful to have someone to hold onto in the dark.

* * *

Central Headquarters was a mess when Roy arrived—literally. Large chunks of the main building were gone like some giant had come and slammed its fist into the walls over and over. There were injured soldiers laid out across the parade grounds, and Roy walked through them all and knew he had a reason to fix this, even beyond Ed.

His gloves were on, several spares in his pockets.

"Chief!" Breda was standing in the front hall, surrounded by a group of cadets. He broke away from them and jogged over to Roy, and it always a sign of how bad things were when Breda was willing to run.

"Lieutenant, what's the situation?" He found his gaze stuck on the damage, completely baffled. "How did this even _happen_?"

"Well, for the first part, I think it's pretty obvious myself, but Zheng is gone. He took a good chunk of property out with him, too."

"How?"

"It was the weirdest thing," Breda said, scowling up at the damaged buildings. "It was just—like all the lights in the building we were in just went haywire. Everything started crumbling and—" He shook his head. "I ducked, that's all I have to say."

"Have there been any deaths?"

"Not that have been counted," Breda responded, and Roy's heart lightened, if only the slightest bit. "Weird thing is, the majority of the injuries reported are eerily similar to Ed's."

_That_caught Roy's attention. "What do you mean?"

"Blindness, disorientation," Breda ticked the symptoms off on his fingers. "Only thing different is the severity. When Zheng escaped, he was more worried about getting the hell out. We're apparently not threats in his mind."

No, the one Zheng considered a threat was in bed, the same place he'd been for two weeks, had no idea where he was or what he was doing. Roy's heart, the moment he'd realized Ed knew who he was, almost exploded from sheer joy—that he could still touch his lover, still sleep next to him and not worry about Ed waking up in the night and wondering who the stranger laying next to him was.

"What steps have you taken?"

"All major transportation out of Central's been shut down," Breda listed. "There are patrols running through every sector of the downtown area and we've contacted the bases further out to monitor the borders. He's here somewhere, sir, and there's no way he can get out."

"Excellent. Keep me updated."

Breda saluted and hurried off. Roy had to find Lieutenant Hawkeye, had to make certain every possible thing was being done, because Zheng's blood belonged on his hands. He could never feel guilty for this death.

"Sir," Hawkeye greeted, as calm as ever, when he threw the office door open and tromped in, face a mask of patience over the turmoil churning beneath the surface. "Are you prepared?"

"Prepared?"

"We're going hunting, sir," Hawkeye said.

"We've found him?"

"We've known where he is," she answered. "We were only waiting for you."

Roy loved his team, loved them more than he could ever imagine loving blood relatives, had he any to name. "Then let's," he suggested.

* * *

The phone was ringing. It'd been ringing a lot, Ed noticed, but he'd never answered it. Roy always answered it, and he always did it downstairs. There used to be a phone closer by, maybe by the bed? Ed was pretty sure there'd been a phone by the bed, but lately he'd been getting confused.

"I'll be right back," Al said, and Ed felt his brother's weight lift from the bed and knew he was alone again, even before the stairs complained of another visitor.

Occasionally, when he slept, Ed saw pictures like he was sitting in the light, and everything was a bright blue and everything was a sight he'd never seen. When he was awake, he could still remember it, mostly, could still see black illuminated by blue. He knew what it was, mostly, but the words wouldn't come and he couldn't make them like he used to, and he didn't know what to do, and then he'd realize where he was, in the dark, and that maybe it wasn't the dark he was in but that dark was just what was there.

Ed grabbed at the sheets and shook the thought from his mind. It wasn't really. The curtains were just closed, and they would be opened soon.

* * *

"_Alphonse._"

"Roy." Al held the phone close to his ear while he angled his face so he was watching the stairs—just in case. "What's happening?"

"_I need you to check the house. There's no one there_," he added before Al could panic, "_but I need you to be able to tell the difference. Just in case._"

"You've found him, then?"

"_Yes_."

"I wish I was there," and oh, god, did Al wish he was there.

"_As useful as that would be, I'm afraid_—"

Al snorted. "I'm not going anyway. Relax."

"_Are you positive,_" Roy began, "_that there's nothing you can remember? Nothing at all about Zheng's capabilities?_"

"I've told you everything I remember," Al said, suppressing the frustrated growl from his voice. "Just—there was just that flash, light a camera going off, only—god, it must have been a thousand times brighter. By the time I got to them, Zheng was knocked unconscious and Ed—"

An uncomfortable sound from the other end of the line, then, "_I know._"

"When Zheng was in custody," Al knew he was grasping at straws, desperate for something, "he didn't—say anything? At all?"

Roy laughed, but it was nowhere near pleasant. "_The man could barely speak Amestrian. His vocabulary didn't go beyond asking where the bathroom was and what he did with my mother last night._"

Al pushed his forehead against the wall. "Wonderful."

"_I promise, there won't be any reason to worry once I've finished_," Roy said, and Al could hear the violence in his voice. For the first time since it happened, Al was glad his brother didn't have the awareness to see what was happening around him. He never would have allowed Roy to go out on his own with his gloves and fire and thirst for blood and vengeance. He'd have guilted himself and all of them until the idea of killing that bastard was the least appealing thing they'd ever heard. But Ed, though Al loved his brother, could be too forgiving, could be too human, too moral. Al wouldn't stop Roy if it meant dealing the killing blow himself.

"I'll hold you to that," Al said, and when the other line clicked, he hung the receiver back on the wall and walked through the house.

They were alone. They were safe. His brother was upstairs waiting for him.

Al wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

* * *

"He's taken refuge in one of the abandoned labs," Hawkeye explained when Roy returned from calling home. "We have no real information on his capabilities, so it would be inadvisable to go in after him."

"The only person with information on his capabilities isn't going to be helping us any time soon," Roy said. "We have no other choice."

Hawkeye stared at him, eyes hard, for a long moment, her hand on her holster and her mind already on the target. "A compromise," she suggested. "Get him into the open."

"If it's possible," Roy agreed, "then it will be done." Otherwise, he was just going to fry the bastard the moment he was within range, and to be perfectly honest, Roy liked that last option even better.

They'd taken up in small tower outpost on the edge of the lab's land, just inside the thick cement wall around the property. The doorway leading down the ladder was secured. At the window, two sniper rifles were readied, hidden from outside view. Roy tugged his gloves tighter on his hands, up his wrists, and nodded.

"Let's begin."

* * *

If only Al would open the curtains, Ed thought, dazed, he might be able to see. Al moved around the room like he could see, and Roy could certainly see, if only to run his hands down Ed's back and press his lips to Ed's neck, but he could, Ed knew. Ed was the only one blinded to the rest of the world, and he was certain, more than certain, that there was something missing, some gap in his mind that held the explanation that was so far out of reach.

And where was Al anyway, he wanted to know. The damn phone kept ringing, ringing, ringing, and Roy should have left the phone Ed knew was once by the bed, because then Al wouldn't have to leave.

Footsteps, the creak of the stairs, Al standing by the bed. "Sorry, brother. It was the general. He needed to, er—"

Ed didn't care what the general had to say on the phone because the world was full of generals, and all of them had something to say. Instead, Ed reached for his brother's sleeve, tugged the fabric and pointed at the window.

"What?" Al asked. "What is it?"

The window, Ed said in his mind. Open the curtains! But no amount of pointing, jabbing his finger in the air, could clue his brother in to what he needed, and there was nothing more frustrating than having something to say and not being able to say it.

"The wall?" Al sounded so confused. "What about it? Is—" his voice dropped to a whisper, "is someone there?"

Ed wanted to slap himself. No—Ed wanted to slap _Al_.

It suddenly occurred to Ed that it didn't matter what he did. He couldn't communicate, hadn't for what seemed like a million lifetimes, and the only thing left was for him to drown in his own mind because that was where he was stuck. It was too dark.

There was something he was forgetting, something vital, and _someone open the goddamn fucking curtains_—

Ed, on his knees, curled over and pushed his face into the mattress, breathed in a familiar scent and knotted his hands into his hair. He could hear Al moving around, speaking to him, but what could he do?

He'd never been so trapped.

* * *

Zheng was nowhere in sight. Ten minutes into the mission, Roy's skin was itching, his entire being alive with the irritation of not being able find the bastard. It was one building, one _fucking_building, how hard could it be to find a single man among boxes and pillars?

Very, apparently.

Roy breathed, kept breathing, conscious of the feel of air pumping into and out of him, tried to calm himself with the soothing motion. It wasn't his time, was never his time, it was that fucking Xingian bastard—

"Sir," Hawkeye raised two fingers, nodded at the building.

"Where is he?"

"There," she said, pointing, eye still looking into the scope on her rifle. "He's pacing—I think he realizes he's caught." She moved aside, enough for Roy to look.

Zheng was pacing, just in view, disappearing and reappearing, walking back and forth with an angry gait. He'd walk into the edge where the sunlight began spilling inside, a bright white line, and then turn abruptly.

Roy smiled thinly. "Good. I'm going down."

Hawkeye didn't move from her gun, but that didn't stop her from voicing her disapproval. "Sir, it wouldn't be safe for you to go alone."

"You'll be watching my back from here," Roy said. "If it makes you feel better, I'll take Havoc. Second Lieutenant, we're moving out."

Hawkeye was quiet while they geared up, keeping her eyes focused on the alchemist pacing within her scope's view, but as Roy opened the hatch to climb down the ladder and to the grounds of the lab, she said, voice quiet and calm, "Be careful."

"I will."

Ed would never forgive him if he died.

* * *

There was something, Ed knew, about the dark, something terrible. He was sitting in it anyway, though, and no matter what he tried, Al wouldn't change it, couldn't, he imagined.

Ed was never going to come out of the dark because the curtains were closed, and his mother wasn't there to open them. But no, not her, never her. She was gone, and he knew that. Roy was who he needed. Roy could fix this where no one else could, he could depend on Roy who wasn't there beside him where he should be.

What was he doing, again?

* * *

The lab was a mess of broken glass and empty crates, all smashed up and spread about the first level. The second level was where Zheng was, and for every shard of glass that Roy ground to dust beneath his boot, for every cloud of dust that settled over him and Havoc, Roy was just that much more eager to get the man. Zheng would regret what he did to Ed.

"Chief," Havoc hissed, keeping close to Roy's side. "Shouldn't we try to take him alive?"

"If possible," Roy said, cold as ice.

"But if he knows how to help the boss—"

"There's no guarantee that he will," Roy interrupted, "or that he even can."

That Roy wanted Zheng dead didn't need to be said. Havoc could surely feel the rage emanating off his superior, burning just as strongly as it had the day they found Ed.

Finally, the stairs, a thin strip winding upward into the second level. Roy put his foot on the first step, pushing down just enough to cause a loud, long _creeeee _to echo up the stairwell.

Zheng would know they were coming.

"What now?" Havoc asked, tone hushed.

"We walk," Roy responded, and took another step. Every fall of his feet sounded another noise. Roy kept his fingers close together, prepared to spark his gloves and fry the hell out of Zheng if—_when_—the man tried to surprise him.

Two more steps, and the top of the stairs—Roy and Havoc stood on the landing to the second level, a wide open room with nothing but partially shattered windows and broken furniture. Zheng stood on the opposite end, fists clenched at his side, slanted eyes focused.

"Zheng," Roy called across, the words echoing. "I hope you're prepared to come with us." Really, Roy didn't. He hoped Zheng was planning to fight, to do anything that would give Roy justifiable cause, because the bastard _deserved _whatever Roy did to him.

Zheng said nothing. Instead, he looked around the room, frowning at the windows, the walls. He looked on the verge of action, but every time he looked at the windows, the light spilling all over the room in random patterns, Zheng would let out a frustrated sound, like a threatened cat. Then, finally, he raised his hands above his head and began walking.

"He's coming," Roy heard Havoc mutter at his side, "just like that?"

It was bewildering. "Looks like it," Roy muttered back. "Keep your gun on him."

But Zheng didn't do a single thing. He looked—frustrated. Angry. He didn't look like he wanted to comply, looked more like he wanted to get his hands around Roy's neck, really, but for some reason, he was walking toward them. When he got just about three feet away, Roy told him to stop.

"Keep your aim," he ordered to Havoc, and went to cuff the man. Zheng muttered under his breath the entire time, a panicked rush of incoherent words. One hand on the cuffs linking Zheng's wrists behind his back and other on the back of Zheng's head, Roy looked over to Havoc and said, "Stay behind me. If he tries anything…"

Havoc gave a single nod. "Will do, sir."

* * *

Again, the phone was ringing, the sound of it faint and out of reach. Ed felt the weight shift on the bed, heard the telltale creak of the floorboards and knew his brother was leaving.

When he reached out, though, Al was still there, close enough to grab Ed's hand and squeeze, to quell the sudden hammering in his chest. "I'll be right back," Al promised, and dropped his brother's hand.

Ed gripped the edge of the bed, leaning out as far as he could while still keeping his balance. The sound of the stairs, his brother descending to the first floor, the ringing coming to an abrupt end.

It must be Roy, Ed thought. Roy must be calling, and then he'd be coming home.

Ed sat on the bed and waited.

* * *

Roy listened the phone ring and ring and ring, fully prepared to hang up and call again if necessary, but around the fifth ring, Al finally picked up. "_Hello?_"

"Al," Roy said with a rush of relief, "it's me."

"_How did it go?_" Al asked, straight to the point.

"We have him in custody."

"_Alive?_" Al sounded surprised. "_Has he said anything about—about Ed's condition?_"

"He hasn't said anything, actually. He's in interrogation right now. The man refuses to budge. I don't think he's opened his mouth once." Roy raked a hand through his hair, frustrated.

Silence from the other end of the line. Roy angled the phone so he could stare back down the hall, the cord stretching from the wall. He could just make out the window of the interrogation room, Zheng's stoic face.

"_Did he struggle?_" Al asked, sounding puzzled. "_If we knew what he was capable of, maybe we could use that to_—"

"He came without a struggle," Roy said, the words tripping dully off his tongue. "There wasn't any indication that he could even use alchemy. He just—looked at us, and surrendered. I didn't even have to ask him to."

Al let out a frustrated noise, and the line went static, the connection breaking for just a moment. Then, "_What now?_"

Roy, still watching Zheng, let out a long, slow breath into the receiver, trying to suppress the sudden wave of helplessness that threatened to overtake him. "I really don't know." He couldn't stand looking at the man much longer. Turning to face the other direction, leaning his shoulder to the wall, he asked, "How's Ed?"

"_I think he's looking for you. He keeps reaching out to the door and pointing to the wall and—I can't make any sense of it. I feel like he's trying to tell me something important, but I just can't figure out what!_"

"We just need to give him some time," Roy said with much more conviction than he actually felt. "He'll get back to normal."

"_I hope so_," Al murmured. "_Do you know when you'll be back?_"

"I wish. I might be here through tomorrow morning, unless we can get Zheng to cooperate."

Al, quietly, said, "_Good luck_."

* * *

The interrogation room always felt stifling, left anyone sitting in it with the sensation of being choked, smothered—of being something less than human. Roy hated the room. That he was the interrogator rather than the fool on the other side of the table made very little difference.

"Who are you working for?"

Zheng stared back at him, impassive.

"What is your connection to Major Elric?" No response. Roy tried, "the Fullmetal Alchemist?"

No response.

"What brought you to Central, Amestris?"

Nothing. No question ever roused Zheng, not _why are you here?_ or _what is your complaint against this country?_ or _don't you know you could cause a war?_

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Roy rested his elbows on the table, leaned forward and said, "Why are you doing this?"

Zheng stared back and said nothing.

* * *

"Maybe," Hawkeye suggested once they were safely away from the interrogation room, "he doesn't understand us?"

"He spoke to us before," Roy said. "I don't see why he can't do it now."

"Your memory must be failing, sir," Hawkeye said dryly. "I believe most of what he said revolved around your mother?" She let out a terse breath. "A translator may be beneficial, sir," she tried again. "Zheng might feel safe speaking his own language—it's a psychological reaction. He may say things to a translator that he wouldn't say in Amestrian."

Roy grudgingly admitted that it was worth a try, though he was loathe to do anything that Zheng might perceive as comforting. "Very well. Find me a translator—one we know to be trustworthy. I don't want any slip-ups."

"I'll report in as soon as I have a candidate."

"Call my personal line," Roy said. "I want to check on Ed."

"Sir," Hawkeye said, then saluted sharply and turned on her heel.

Part of Roy rebelled against leaving without having found any answers. Returning home empty-handed felt wrong, and despite the fact that he knew Ed wouldn't mind, would welcome him with open arms, Roy still felt a sickening weight in his stomach when he opened the front door.

There was a sound from the top of the stairs, and Al descended, a guarded look quickly shifting to relief when he caught sight of Roy.

"You're back," Al said. "Ed's been—he's wanted to see you."

Roy frowned at the hesitation, but smiled nevertheless. "I don't suppose there's been any change since we spoke?"

Al shook his head, grimacing. "No. I didn't expect it, but it would've been—nice."

Nice wasn't the word for it. Even a slight improvement in Ed's condition would have set Roy doing cartwheels. "He's still awake?"

Al nodded. "Yeah. I was just planning on getting some food for us. But since you're here, would you mind if I got some sleep?"

The distended bags under Al's eyes said. "Take the guest room. I'll let you know when I'm leaving."

There was no telling how long Al would need to stay. He might as well get sleep when he could.

Roy had made it a habit of climbing the stairs slowly over the past two weeks, letting each wooden creak sound an alarm for Ed. He was almost positive Ed could tell when he was coming—when he got to the top of the stairs and into the doorway of their room, Ed was staring in his direction.

"Edward," Roy said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling?" He clung to the fact that Ed knew it was him, would wrap his arms around Roy and rest his head on Roy's shoulder, comforted by his presence.

If only he could respond.

* * *

Roy woke, disoriented, to a completely darkened room, Ed's head tucked under his chin and the blankets down around his waist. When he shifted, Ed let out a slow, stuttered breath and huddled closer.

Stretching his neck, Roy could just see the face of the clock: three in the morning. Had he really slept so long?

Hawkeye obviously hadn't called, or Al would have come and woken him up. Trying to carefully extract himself from Ed's grasp, Roy sat up, rubbing wearily at his eyes, trying to shake the last bit of sleep from his mind.

Ed, arms around Roy's waist and head resting on Roy's thigh, opened his eyes. It was always unnerving to watch when Ed's eyes would dart rapidly back and forth, unseeing. The gold of his irises looked so glazed, as though covered by a thick lens. There was always that moment when Ed's features would distort in momentary panic, then his face would relax, memory kicking in.

"Morning," Roy said, voice still rough. He ran a hand through Ed's hair, noting the knots. There was a brush beside the bed, likely Al's handiwork. Ed probably needed a bath. Roy hadn't the time lately to take care of Ed as he should, not with Zheng to deal with. Heavy with guilt, he made a mental note to take it up with Al.

Ed looked up at the sound of his voice, and smiled, the expression vague and clouded.

"How are you?" A futile question, Roy knew, but every time he asked, he did so with the hope that Ed's mouth would open and that familiar voice would answer.

No such luck that morning. Ed stirred, arms fumbling to push himself up.

Roy watched him sit up, watched Ed look around and point at the all, looking concerned. He wondered if he would always feel so helpless in the face of Ed's condition.

Probably, Roy figured, and leaned off the side of the bed to fish his wrinkled uniform out of the pile of clothes.

Downstairs, Al was awake, sitting at the kitchen table with a pot of coffee on, already have gone. He smiled at Roy when he walked in, looking just as exhausted as he had when he'd disappeared into the guestroom. "Morning," he said wryly.

"Lovely day," Roy returned, just as dry. "I don't suppose I got a phone call?"

"You did, actually," Al said, watching Roy fumble through the pile of clean dishes in the sink, searching for his mug. "Riza said there was no point in waking you, though."

The coffee smelled so good. Roy took a moment to close his eyes, letting the smell waft up and warm his face before saying, "She didn't find a translator?"

"She did," Al corrected. "But they aren't immediately available."

"Did she say who?"

"Armstrong's little sister," Al said, with no small amount of humor. "Apparently, she's fluent in a few languages."

"Little sister? Catherine?"

"That's the one," Al confirmed. "She'll be there at eight. Riza said you didn't need to be there until seven to get ready, so I wasn't to wake you."

"How thoughtful. And I take it she's pulling an all-nighter?"

"You'd know better than I would," Al said with a grin.

* * *

The interrogation room was a little too full for Roy's liking. Alex had insisted he be there (just in case, of course) if his baby sister was taking part. Hawkeye had to be there as well, was always his assistant. Roy, himself, was sitting across from Zheng, Catherine at his side.

He looked at Catherine and said, "Why are you in Amestris?" With a nervous glance, she translated. Roy was impressed with how steady her voice was.

Zheng looked puzzled for a moment, then—Roy nearly jumped with how shocked he was—responded, his voice just as strong and even as Catherine's.

She translated the moment he stopped speaking. "He said," she began, "that he was chased out of his home by the ruling clan."

Roy wasn't impressed. "And he came here? Why did he attack our city? He's been on our wanted list for six months already."

Another quick exchange. "He said that our country is wrong." Catherine's brows dipped down, as though unable to make sense of someone who disagreed with Amestris. "He said that Amestrians stand in the way."

"In the way of what?"

Catherine repeated, then, looking even more confused, translated: "Everything."

Zheng watched the exchange with something close to amusement flickering in his dark eyes. The man made no sense. Roy wanted to reach across the table and throttle him, to force the bastard to just give a straight answer.

Letting out a low laugh, Zheng rested his hands flat on the table, looking right at Roy. The lights overhead flickered, and for a strange moment, Roy could have sworn the area on the table around Zheng's hands illuminated, a faint white light, just as Al's voice sounded in his mind, _it was like a camera going off, only a thousand times lighter_—

Then the door opened, casting a shadow over the room. Whatever that soft light had been, it disappeared, and Zheng frowned, looking away. "Mister Mustang?" It was one of the secretary's from the intelligence department. "I have a response from the Xingian embassy."

"Give it here." Roy held out a hand, shaking off a feeling of unease. It was about time that country took responsibility.

* * *

Ed felt like he'd been drifting for days, lost at sea. He'd swam and swam and swam, the shore just out of reach, the tide constantly pulling him down into the water's fathomless depths.

So it made sense, really, he told himself, that finally breaking the surface would feel so strange. The radio perched on the bedside table was the first image to really process, the low static crackling through the announcer's voice a pleasant sound. It felt like he'd been gone for so long.

"…wanted criminal will be deported to Xing," the announcer was saying. Ed could just barely make it out over the sound of Al's snores. His brother was sprawled out next to him, on top of the sheets, his hair sticking out bizarrely, leaving his head with the appearance of a hedgehog.

Something about Xing stuck in his mind, about Xing and light and Al's voice, the sound of his brother's footsteps fast and heavy as ran to him, _where are you_'s spilling from his mouth, over and over.

Ed closed his eyes, blinked slowly, and stared at the ceiling. When Al stirred, eyes opening, Ed rolled over and said, "Where's Roy?" His voice stuck in his throat, barely able to get out of his mouth through the too-dry feeling.

Al stared, mouth open. "Ed?" He shot up, nearly falling out of the bed trying to get to his feet. "You're—you can speak? You're all right? Just stay right there, I have to call the general, _don't move_—" He was already running down the stairs by the time he got the last of the words out.

Ed sat on the bed, watching his brother leave, and fought away a strange feeling of déjà vu.


End file.
